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  STAN: Hey Oscar, give her a hand.

  OSCAR: Okay.

  (Jessie leans onto Oscar.)

  Hold onto me. I gotchu.

  JESSIE: Are we together?

  OSCAR: No!

  CYNTHIA: And get her a glass of water.

  TRACEY: You mean a gallon.

  (Oscar leads Jessie to the bathroom.)

  OSCAR: Just a couple of steps. Okay. Take your time.

  STAN: Jesus. Fucking pathetic.

  CYNTHIA (To Tracey): I thought you were gonna talk to her! She keeps showing up at work smelling like a bottle of vodka.

  TRACEY: No shit, she’s been a complete wreck since Dan got remarried.

  CYNTHIA: // Talk to her!

  TRACEY: My husband died and you don’t see me bathing in booze. And I’m sorry, but I just can’t hear her go on about him one more time. He was a creep, and it’s my fucking birthday, you’d think she’d be able to hold it together.

  CYNTHIA: I know, but seriously, talk to her. Someone’s gonna get hurt.

  TRACEY: You gonna report her?

  CYNTHIA: Listen babe, they’re always looking for reasons to let us go. ’Specially now, with this damn shake up—

  STAN: Then the rumor’s true, huh? Butz is getting promoted?

  CYNTHIA: Yeah.

  TRACEY: He’s heading to some plant outta state.

  STAN: Who they bringing in?

  TRACEY: They’re talking about hiring someone from the floor.

  STAN: Get outta here. Really? You gonna apply?

  TRACEY: Me? No fucking way.

  (Stan glances over at Cynthia.)

  STAN: You’re awful quiet, Cynth.

  CYNTHIA: Who knows? I might apply.

  TRACEY: What?! Get outta here.

  CYNTHIA: Why the hell not? I’ve got twenty-four years on the floor.

  TRACEY: Well, I got you beat by two. Started in ’74, walked in straight outta high school. First and only job. Management is for them. Not us.

  CYNTHIA: More money. More heat. More vacation. Less work. That’s all I need to know.

  TRACEY: Hey Stan, how many years did you put in before the injury?

  STAN: Twenty-eight.

  TRACEY: And in those twenty-eight years you ever see anyone move off the floor?

  STAN: … Um, no … wait, wait … there was Griff Parker.

  TRACEY: Yeah, but he left, went to college came back as management. They didn’t pluck him off the line. Doesn’t count.

  CYNTHIA: Shit, you wanna be fifty and standing on your feet for ten hours a day? Titties sagging into the machines. I got bunions the size of damn apples. // My back—

  TRACEY: Bla … bla. Write a book.

  CYNTHIA: Don’t know about you, but I can feel my body slowing down, a little every day. I go home and my hands are frozen, I can’t even hold a frying pan. I gotta rub ’em together for an hour before they even move.

  TRACEY: But be serious, Butz’s job?

  CYNTHIA: I know the machines. I know the people.

  TRACEY: Hold on, hold on. You’re really gonna apply?! No bullshit.

  CYNTHIA: All they can do is say no, right Stan?

  STAN: That’s right.

  (A moment.)

  TRACEY: Well … If that’s the case, maybe I should throw my name into the mix. Right? I need a vacation. I got the same experience you got. But, I mean none of us girls are gonna get it, right?

  CYNTHIA: It’s been a helluva lot better since Olstead’s grandson took over—

  STAN: Gimme a break. That place hasn’t changed since I walked in there in ’69. Not a lightbulb, not one single nut or bolt. As a matter of fact it hasn’t changed much since my grandfather began working there in ’22. Good luck, sweetheart. I don’t know him, but I can tell you that Olstead’s grandson is the same brand of asshole as all of ’em, stuffing his pockets, rather than improving the floor.

  CYNTHIA: // Word.

  STAN: Now, the old man, he used to be on the floor every single day. I didn’t like him, but I respected him for it. You know why?

  TRACEY: He was a prick and a perv—

  STAN: Because he knew what was going on, and you can only know that by being there. A machine was broken, he knew. A worker was having trouble, he knew. You don’t see the young guys out there. They find it offensive to be on the floor with their Wharton MBAs. And the problem is they don’t wanna get their feet dirty, their diplomas soiled with sweat … or understand the real cost, the human cost of making their shitty product.

  CYNTHIA: Amen to that.

  JESSIE (From off): Oh, shit.

  (From off, a crash and a thud.)

  STAN: Hey, maybe one of you should check on Jessie.

  TRACEY: Nah, she’s fine.

  CYNTHIA: Did you get a load of what she’s wearing? Looks like her prom dress.

  TRACEY: Probably was.

  (Jessie reenters unseen. Her dress is caught up in the back of her underwear.)

  CYNTHIA: I love that woman, but she’s gonna drag us all down with her.

  JESSIE: Who?

  CYNTHIA: Don’t worry about it, babe.

  JESSIE: Were you talking about me?

  CYNTHIA: We’re just talking.

  JESSIE: Okay.

  (A moment.)

  Stan, can I get another gim—

  STAN: No! N-O.

  JESSIE: You’re bullshit.

  STAN: I can live with that.

  JESSIE: Bullshit!

  STAN: Enough already. Jesus.

  TRACEY: C’mon, Jessie, relax.

  CYNTHIA: Get your shit together. Frank’s lookin’ for reasons—

  TRACEY: Can we not have this conversation, it’s like seriously cutting into my buzz. We’ve been having the same conversation for twenty years. So, let’s stop complaining and have some fun.

  (Music. Laughter. Celebration.)

  SCENE 3

  February 10, 2000

  Outside it’s 44°F.

  In the news: Billionaire Steve Forbes drops out of the Republican Primary after investing $66,000,000 of his own money. Work begins on the Downtown Civic Convention Center in Reading.

  Lights up. Bar. Chris and Jason, their younger selves, stand at the bar, tipsy. Once again, Oscar is a quiet but visible presence throughout the scene, watching, listening and working.

  JASON: I spoke to the owner. It has something like twenty-three-thousand miles on it. Can you believe it? An old man kept it in his garage like a trophy. It’s in beautiful condition. Mint.

  CHRIS: Phat. You gonna do it?

  JASON: Thinking about it.

  CHRIS: Dude.

  (Jason proudly displays a picture.)

  JASON: What do you think?

  STAN: Nice.

  JASON: Right. It’s exactly like the one my dad had, but in better condition. Yo, check out the logo on the side. Dooope …

  STAN: A Harley? What’s your mom think?

  JASON: So as far as I’m concerned, if she ain’t paying for it then she don’t got no say. In October, when I turned twenty-one, she made it dead clear that her work was done. She changed the locks on the front door and didn’t give me a key. That sends a pretty clear fucking message, huh?

  CHRIS: Yo.

  STAN: That kinda sounds like Tracey.

  JASON: All I can say is that when I saw the bike, my first urge was to fuck it.

  (Jason simulates humping the bike.)

  CHRIS: Get outta here.

  (Throughout the scene, Oscar scraps gum from the bottom of the tables. It is an unpleasant task, but Oscar is focused and determined.)

  STAN: Yeah? Whatcha waiting on, why don’t you buy it?

  JASON: I figure I got another (Calculating) month and half of saving and it’s mine. Fucking union got all our money tied up in benefits and shit, don’t have nothing left for fun.

  CHRIS: You ain’t lying. Between my new lady—

  JASON: Monique!

  CHRIS: —and Uncle Sam, money got a way of running outcha pocket. Nobody tells you that no
matter how hard you work there will never be enough money to rest. It’s fact. A fact that should be taught to every child! Look at me. I been trying to save a little something for school, right? But every time I tuck it away, I hear the cry of “Nike Flightposite,” “Air Jordan XV,” a meal at the Olive Garden, and a movie will set you back two days’ work.

  JASON: Dude, you got more sneakers than the entire Sixers.

  CHRIS: No swagger without the proper kicks. It’s how I roll. A man gotta have one vice that keeps him hungry.

  STAN: Is that a rule?

  CHRIS: No, no my friend it’s a mandate.

  JASON: And, wait a minute, did I … did I hear you say school?

  CHRIS: Yeah. School. S-C-H-O-O-L!

  JASON: Thanks for that clarification.

  CHRIS: I … I got accepted into the teaching program at Albright.

  JASON: What? Come again?

  CHRIS: Yeah. Starting in September. Yup! Plan on working double shifts. Put away a little something, you know, for tuition.

  STAN: Good for you!

  JASON: Wait … Wait, no way. Dude, what the fuck are you saying? Why didn’t you tell me?

  CHRIS: Cuz, I knew you’d make fun of me.

  JASON: Of course I will. Whatcha gonna do? Teach history at Reading High for the next twenty years?

  CHRIS: I might.

  JASON: Yeah? You’ll fucking suck.

  CHRIS: You know what? You need to shut up an’ drink your beer. That’s exactly why I didn’t say anything.

  JASON: Whatever. In four years, max, guarantee you’ll be back begging for your job at Olstead’s. And yo, have you been up to Reading High lately? It’s like a prison yard, they got thirty-year-old freshmen. Dude, that don’t pay jack-shit, you’ll have to take a second job just to keep your lights on.

  STAN: He’s got a point. Do you know what teachers make these days?

  JASON: Tell him.

  STAN: Seriously, son, not many people walk away from Olstead’s, cuz you’re not gonna find better money out there. You leave, it’ll be impossible to get back in. They’ll be ten guys lining up for your fucking job.

  JASON: Yup.

  STAN: That’s the way it is. And I know a couple of the old guys who are bringing in close to forty-something dollars an hour.

  JASON: Listen.

  STAN: Teaching, well—

  CHRIS: That’s cool. Good for them. But, I kinda wanna do something a little different than my moms and pops. Yo, I got aspirations. There it is. And I won’t apologize.

  JASON: You got aspirations? What is this, Black History Month?

  CHRIS: As a matter of fact it is. You got a problem with that?

  JASON: If we’re being perfectly honest, I get a little tired of the syrupy commercials. Actually, it shouldn’t be called Black History Month, it should be called “Make White People Feel Guilty Month.” Right, Stan?

  STAN: Don’t pull me into this.

  JASON: And how come there’s no White History Month?

  CHRIS: Psh. I’m gonna let you ponder that question! Which may be a little difficult for you, I know, and I’m sorry.

  JASON: Fuck you. You haven’t even gone to college and you’re already an asshole.

  CHRIS: No offense, but I’m fucking sick of jacking. Phomp. Phomp. Phomp. The machines are so fucking loud I can’t even think. It’s getting harder and harder to pull myself up and go to work every day.

  JASON: You’re tripping.

  STAN: I hear you, but the trick is, you gotta find a rhythm and stay inside of it, that’s how you manage.

  CHRIS: Well, it ain’t a rhythm I wanna learn.

  JASON: What the floor, it ain’t good enough for you?!

  CHRIS: Don’t get it twisted, I’m not saying that. But …

  JASON: What?

  CHRIS: You ain’t noticed the shit that’s been going on.

  JASON: What are you talking about?

  CHRIS: I dunno. Forget it. But—

  JASON: Don’t do that! C’mon. What?

  CHRIS: Like, last week, remember, they had a couple of them white hats walking the floor.

  JASON: Yeah, so? Dude, maybe they’re just upgrading the equipment.

  CHRIS: Well, they got buttons now, BOOP, that can replace all of us. Boop. Boop.

  JASON: C’mon, you’re being paranoid.

  CHRIS: Man, you ever given any thought to what you might do if this don’t work out?

  JASON: … Nah, not really. Knock on wood. I plan on retiring from the plant when I’m like fifty with a killa pension and money to burn, buy a condo in Myrtle Beach, open a Dunkin’ Donuts and live my life. Right, Stan?

  STAN: Not a bad plan.

  CHRIS: Really? Dunkin’ Donuts, that’s your vision, huh? Dunkin’-Fuckin’-Donuts?

  JASON: Yeah, so?

  CHRIS: Punch in, punch out, and at the end of the day you end up with a box of donuts and diabetes. My man, where’s your imagination? You need to get on a bus and do some traveling.

  JASON: What about our cruise to Jamaica? Quit whining.

  (A moment.)

  But seriously, man, why didn’t you tell me?

  CHRIS: Cuz—

  JASON: Shit, I just kinda thought we’d retire and open a franchise together. We’re a team, you can’t leave!!

  CHRIS: Yeah, I can.

  JASON: What about me?

  CHRIS: What about you?

  JASON: You coulda told me.

  CHRIS: Dude, it’s just something I gotta do.

  JASON: Yeah, right!

  CHRIS: What?

  JASON: Okay.

  CHRIS: What?!

  JASON: Whatever. Hey Stan, pour this bitch a shot so he’ll shut the fuck up.

  SCENE 4

  March 2, 2000

  Outside it’s 48°F.

  In the news: In the Republican Presidential Debate, Alan Keyes, John McCain and George Bush. In Reading, an overnight fire leaves a mother with five children homeless. Baldwin Hardware Corporation, a brass hardware maker, announces plans to open a new 280,000-square-foot facility in Leesport.

  Lights up. Bar. Brucie (African-American, forties) sits at the bar nursing a drink. The Republican Debate (Keyes, McCain, Bush) plays on the television.

  STAN: Who are you liking?

  BRUCIE: Don’t matter. They’ll all shit on us in the end.

  STAN: What do you think of this Bush guy?

  BRUCIE: I dunno. He looks like a little fucking chimp. But, if I gotta go with someone, Bradley’s my man. Always liked him, cut through the bullshit, got to the ball, kept it up in the air.

  STAN: Yeah, for sure, a real smart player. Like ’im, don’t know how good a president he’d be, but I’d want him in a pickup game. You watching this?

  BRUCIE: Nah.

  (Stan channel-surfs, grows bored, then switches off the television. Oscar enters and begins replenishing the bar. He works silently and methodically, actively listening to the conversation. His quiet but alert presence should be felt throughout the scene.)

  You see Garth?

  STAN: Nah, what’s up?

  BRUCIE: He opened a B and B.

  STAN: Get outta here, you’re the third person to tell me that.

  BRUCIE: He always said he was gonna do it. He used to talk about it all of the time. “A bed-and-breakfast in Honduras. It’s gonna be dope, y’all.” I was, like, “What? Yeah, where the fuck is Honduras?” Garth was a cheap-ass bastard. He would never buy a round. Now, I get it.

  STAN: Eyes on the prize.

  BRUCIE: Yeah.

  STAN: Whatcha up to?

  BRUCIE: Shit, you know—

  STAN: Yeah—

  BRUCIE: Out there. I don’t wanna go backwards.

  STAN: I hear that, so how many days you guys been locked out?

  BRUCIE: Ninety-three weeks.

  STAN: That’s what I thought. Tough.

  BRUCIE: Yup. Didn’t wanna take the new contract. Be a fucking slave. That’s what they want. We offered to take a fifty-percent pay cut, they won�
��t budge, they want us to give up our retirement. What’s the point? Full circle, a lifetime, and be the same place I was when I was eighteen. What is that?

  STAN: They bring in temps?

  BRUCIE: Yeah, mostly Spanish cats, whatever. Cross the line, they work ’em to the bone, then get a fresh batch in three months.

  STAN: Fuck ’em, you can do better.

  BRUCIE: I know a coupla cats have moved on, but if we win this new contract at the textile mill, there’s a big payout. That’s why I’m holding out. They’re trying to break the union.

  STAN: Can’t be done. I’m proud of you guys.

  BRUCIE: It’s pointless.

  STAN: Don’t say that.

  BRUCIE: I been on the hustle for how many years? Worked hard. Right? Had the family. Now, I’m forty-nine.

  STAN: Get outta here.

  BRUCIE: Yeah, forty-fucking-nine, but listen, I was thinking the other day, I gotta do this for the next, what? fifteen–twenty years. You know this! Worrying. The hustle, man, my pop didn’t go through this shit. I mean, he … he clocked in every day until he didn’t, and went out with a nice package. He went on an eighteen-day cruise through the Greek Islands last October. Me, shit, I run the full mile, I put in the time, do the right thing, don’t get me wrong, I had some good years … But, dude, tell me what I did wrong, huh?

  STAN: I hear you. Getting injured was the best thing that ever happened to me. Got me out of that vortex. Three generations on the floor. Loyal as hell, I never imagined working anywhere else. I get injured. I’m in the hospital for nearly two months. I can’t walk. Can’t feel my toes. Not one of those Olstead fuckers called to check on me, to say, “I’m sorry for not fixing the machine.” They knew that machine was trouble. Ramsey, Smitz—everyone wrote it up.

  BRUCIE: I know how that goes.

  STAN: The only time I heard from Olstead is when they sent their hard-ass lawyer to the hospital, ’cause they didn’t want me to sue. Fucking pricks. Twenty-eight years. That’s when I understood. That’s when I knew, I was nobody to them. Nobody! Three generations of loyalty to the same company. This is America, right? You’d think that would mean something. They behave like they’re doing you a goddamn favor.

  BRUCIE: I hear you.

  STAN: Bottom line, they don’t understand that human decency is at the core of everything. I been jacking all them years and I can count on my hand the number of times they said thank you. Management: look me in the eye, say “thank you” now and then. “Thanks, Stan, for coming in early and working on the weekend. Good job.” I loved my job. I was good at my job. Twenty-eight years jacking. And look at my leg! That’s what I get.